Before his little shop stands old Ah Foo,
Smoothing ms wrinkled hands, his yellow face
Inscrutable; and in that noisy place
Watches the heavy traffic rolling by
Under the great bridge-arches shadowed blue,
To where the river masts prick all the sky.
Within the little shop of old Ah Foo
Stand canisters of tea in green and red --
Fat ginger-jars with lovely glazes spread;
Old scarlet lacquer lids. and bits of jade,
Like pools at evening; shallow bowls of blue,
And tall, black cabinets with pearl inlaid.
Watching the street, unmoving, stands Ah Foo.
The flooded rice-fields stretch before his eyes!
He hears the coolies' chants, remembered cries;
Sees dim, lost places 'neath his gaze unfold ....
Then fumbles for the door, and shuffles through,
And sits and feels that he is old -- so old!
First published in The Bulletin, 24 February 1927
